Pathways - Jeri Taylor [95]
The water was quiet within this maze, the huge stones deflecting the current. B’Elanna felt an immediate sensation of tranquillity as she moved lazily among the forest of stones. Given her lung capacity, there was no doubt in her mind that she could outlast Tom Paris.
Fluttering like a fish among the huge boulders, she smiled to think of Tom’s consternation when she failed to reappear. It was not a nice trick, certainly, but he was pushy and arrogant and deserved to be shaken up a little. He’d find out she was not someone to be taken lightly.
She found a handhold on one of the stones and was surprised that it wobbled slightly. She had thought these stones were firmly embedded in the channel. But after it shifted slightly, it settled once more into its footing. B’Elanna continued to wind her way through the rocky corridors.
The collapse of the boulders happened so gently she was almost unaware of it at first. There was a sense of motion in the water—a lazy roiling that conveyed no alarm—and then movement from above made her lift her head, even though she could see nothing.
Only vague surprise came over her as she felt the pile of stones lower gently on her, like a feather-cloud of soft blankets. She was pushed softly to the silt bed of the stream and covered by a network of smooth boulders. There was nothing violent about the act, nothing that seemed brutal or dangerous. It was like a delicate caress, casual and soothing.
Except that she couldn’t move.
She didn’t panic. There were minutes to go before she would need to breathe again. There would be a way out from under this stony covering and she would rise to the surface to delight in Tom’s astonishment.
She maneuvered her body as best she could to find a point of leverage. The stones were cradling her so softly it seemed impossible they could resist her efforts to push them off. But try as she might, with both legs and arms, she couldn’t budge them.
Still, she felt no fear. There was an unreality to the situation that kept her in a state of disbelief. She expected at any moment to feel the stones yield to her and float off, as they might in a dream.
She didn’t know how much time had passed before she realized they might not. She had tried everything to shift her granite shroud, but the boulders hadn’t moved so much as a millimeter. Soon, she would have to breathe. If not, she would die.
But strangely, this thought didn’t energize her. In fact, her mind began to wander, and she stopped straining at her rocky tomb. Images of childhood swirled in her mind, but unlike most of her recollections of her youth, these produced no anxieties. Why had she always been so angry? It seemed so unnecessary now. Her father had gone, and she lacked friends . . . but her mother was always there. Always. Her mother had taught her to be strong . . . stronger than any of the other children . . . smarter . . . why had she allowed those human children to make her feel unworthy? Why did she drive them away?
Drive them away?
The thought flickered in her mind for a moment like the wings of a desperate insect trapped in a cobweb. She had created her own isolation. Here, in this tranquil pool, soon to be her grave, the thought had the clarity of beautiful crystal. She had yielded to her Klingon temperament, and therein lay her undoing.
She could have behaved in a more human way. Her life would have been free of anguish, she would have had friends, she would have been loved. Why did insight come too late?
Vague memories of her father drifted through her mind . . . he was on the floor on hands and knees, she sitting astride him shrieking with a toddler’s delight . . . he was pulling covers over her, kissing her cheek and saying good night . . . his cheek scratchy on hers . . . he was calling to her to jump . . . jump from the dock into the lake . . . he would catch her . . . he would keep her safe . . . he would protect